


you are my only pretense

by RonnieMinor



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gore, Kidnapping, Male-Female Friendship, Pack Dynamics, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieMinor/pseuds/RonnieMinor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The first time Stiles sees Allison after the battle with Gerard – in the store, of all places – he’s angry."</p><p>In the aftermath of the showdown with Gerard, things between Stiles and Allison take an unexpected turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are my only pretense

The first time Stiles sees Allison after the battle with Gerard – in the store, of all places – he’s angry. 

He walks up to her, and without any preamble asks, ‘Did you know?’ 

‘Did I know what?’ Allison looks confused, maybe even a little scared. Stiles feels strangely satisfied. 

‘Did you know that your whackjob grandfather _kidnapped_ me, locked me in your basement with Boyd and Erica, and then beat me up so I could be a _message_?’ Stiles hisses, purposely keeping his voice low enough that they won’t be overheard. 

Allison’s eyes go wide and she genuinely seems shocked when she says, ‘Stiles, I had _no_ idea!’ Her gaze skitters over the fading marks on his face. ‘I’m -’ 

‘Don’t you dare say you’re sorry’, Stiles says sharply, cutting her off before she can get the words out. ‘I mean, you know that none of this would have happened if you hadn’t started turning into your aunt, right?’ 

The hurt in Allison’s eyes doesn’t make Stiles feel good like he thought it would. He turns on his heel and leaves. He doesn’t look back. 

* * *

It’s about midnight when the knocking at his window makes him jump half out of his seat. With an angry sigh – because practically having a heart attack is not high on Stiles’ list of ‘fun things to do’ – he gets up and heads over to the window. To say he’s taken aback when he sees Allison (rather than one of the friendly neighbourhood werewolves) is an understatement. Briefly, he contemplates not letting her in. 

‘What do you want?’ he says as he opens the window. She shrugs. 

‘I wanted to talk to you.’ 

Stiles quirks an eyebrow at her. ‘We talked earlier. I thought it went well.’ 

‘I disagree’, Allison says, pushing past him and gracefully slipping into his room. She settles on the bed. Stiles scowls at her. Allison ignores him. 

Still scowling, Stiles shuts the window. ‘How did you even get up here?’ he asks, curious despite himself. ‘I mean, I know our mutual werewolf acquaintances are pretty good at ignoring doors in favour of bedroom windows, but somehow I doubt you’ve taken the bite.’ 

‘Gymnastics’, Allison says. ‘Many, many years of gymnastics.’ 

_Bendy_ , Stiles’ mind helpfully supplies, because he’s sixteen years old and has a fairly one-track mind when he’s not helping kill supernatural beasts or trying not to die. His brain continues with: _strong and flexible_. Stiles clamps down on the thought and pushes it to the back of his mind because a) he’s still mad at Allison, and b) bro-code states that out of decency, you do not fantasise about your best friend’s girl, no matter how hot she may be. 

He comes back from his little mental tangent with a snort. ‘Ok’, he says. ‘Your parents did kind of a shit job of not raising you as a hunter.’ 

‘Shut up Stiles’, Allison snaps. Her face is hard, just as it has been these past few weeks. Stiles remembers the way she used to look; remembers the sweetness that characterised her as a person. It makes him feel more than a little sad to see how she’s changed. 

‘You wanted to talk’, he says after a beat, deliberately changing the subject. ‘So talk.’ 

Allison takes a deep breath. ‘I wanted to apologise’, she says finally. ‘I really _didn’t_ know that my gr- that Gerard kidnapped you. After we caught Erica and Boyd, my dad wouldn’t let me in the basement.’ She laughs a little, sounding almost like she might cry. ‘I think… I think he was trying to protect me.’ Then she looks up, meeting Stiles’ eye. 

‘Anyway… you were right. If I hadn’t gone along with Gerard, if I hadn’t been so set on trying to kill Derek… just, you were right. I could have stopped this. And I wanted to say I’m sorry that I didn’t.’ 

There’s silence in the wake of her words. Stiles’ brain scrambles, unsure what to make of Allison’s apology, flickering from anger to sadness to pity and then back again. Eventually he says, ‘You couldn’t have stopped anything, you know that right?’ Allison looks like she’s about to protest and he holds up a hand to stop her. ‘No, I’m serious. There’s no way you could have stopped this. Yeah, maybe you could have slowed it down a little or avoided some casualties along the way, but Gerard was always going to do what he wanted. So was your dad – look at which side he ended up on.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate the apology, but I think you need to understand that you’re not solely responsible for what happened. I should never have said that you were.’ 

‘You were right about me turning into Kate though’, Allison says quietly, and Stiles feels the last of his anger fade away. 

‘Allison, your mom died. I think you were bound to go a little crazy.’ His gaze falls to the carpet. ‘I know I did when my mom passed.’ 

There’s another silence after that, and when Stiles looks up again Allison is crying, tears streaking her face. His stomach winds itself into a knot. 

‘Shit, I’m sorry’, he says, getting up and going to sit next to Allison, gingerly putting an arm around her shoulders. He’s not expecting her to turn and bury her face in his shoulder, but she does, so he wraps his other arm around her and just holds on. For a long time after that, there’s nothing but the sound of Allison’s wet, choked breathing. Really, it should be uncomfortable as hell, but although Stiles would truthfully say he’d rather not be here if he didn’t have to be, it’s not quite as awful as he’d have expected. 

It’s a while before Allison quietens, pulling back and wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘I’m sorry’, she says thickly. ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’ Stiles shrugs, grabbing her a handful of tissues from the box beside his bed (he really doesn’t think Allison would want to touch the box if she knew what he normally uses the tissues for) and passing them over. 

‘It’s ok’, he tells her. And it kind of is, because _this_ he understands. 

‘I just… I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this’, Allison admits. 

Stiles frowns. ‘What about Lydia?’ 

Allison’s mouth twists. ‘After everything I’ve been keeping from her these past few months, and with what happened that night in the warehouse, Lydia’s made it pretty clear that she doesn’t want to speak to me right now’, she says wryly. ‘I can’t exactly blame her.’ 

‘But what about Scott?’ Stiles asks. Then he groans. ‘Shit. Sorry. I totally forgot.’ 

Allison laughs a little. ‘I do too sometimes, if I’m honest.’ She blows her nose noisily. ‘Ugh. You know, if I’d known you were going to make me bawl my eyes out, I’d have stayed at home.’ 

‘Well if you forgot about my reputation as a serial heartbreaker then it’s your fault’, Stiles says, totally deadpan. Allison stares at him for a moment, then cracks up laughing. He reaches for her hand and squeezes it. ‘Look, uh, I know we’ve never been close or anything, and I know things with Scott and you are kind of _not_ right now, but if you need someone to talk to about your mom, or whatever…’ He trails off, shrugging. 

Allison laces their fingers together, squeezing his hand back. She nods. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I will.’ She smiles, and it looks genuine. ‘Thank you.’ And for a minute or two they just sit shoulder to shoulder in comfortable silence, holding hands. Then Allison sighs. 

‘I’d better go’, she says. ‘Dad will start sending out a search party if I’m not in my room when he checks in.’ 

Stiles winces. ‘Yeah, you should go. I’d really rather not have my front door kicked in by your dad – or have to explain _why_ it’s kicked in to _my_ dad. But, uh… thank you. For the apology and everything. I appreciate it.’ He nudges Allison’s shoulder companionably. She nudges back. 

‘Thank _you_ for letting me literally cry on your shoulder.’ She stands up and heads over to the window, turning back to shoot him a small smile. ‘I’ll see you around.’ Then she’s over the sill and gone from sight, a slight thump indicating that she’s hit the ground. Stiles doesn’t watch her go. 

But he doesn’t close his window either. Instead, he just sits on the bed and stares at his wall for a long, _long_ time, until finally, he falls asleep. 

* * *

Life doesn’t get any easier in the aftermath of the showdown with Gerard. Sure, Stiles’ bruises fade and Dr Deaton lets Scott know that Gerard is finally, _finally_ dead, but it’s less than a week before Derek decides to inform them that an Alpha pack (whatever the hell that is) has made its presence known. It takes exactly three days after _that_ for Stiles to be sneaking out of the house and lying to his dad again. It’s probably some kind of record. 

Still, somewhere in between the running around, trying not to get in the way or get killed, _and_ studying for exams, Stiles somehow winds up talking to Allison most days. Originally it starts as her taking Stiles up on his offer to provide a listening ear: the death of her mother is a raw wound, and she really needs someone to talk to, particularly someone who understands what she’s going through. Over time though, they begin to stray from the subject of loss and move on to other things. It’s slow at first, but by the time a month and a half has passed, it’s fairly common for them to be talking about totally mundane subjects that are in no way related to death. 

Stiles will freely admit that the whole thing makes him a little guilty – Scott is the closest thing he has to a brother, and Stiles knows for a fact that he’s still madly in love with Allison – but he reassures himself that it’s not like he’s doing anything _wrong_. Allison just so happens to be a really cool girl who needs a friend right now. Stiles is happy to be that friend, especially considering that Lydia is still barely speaking to Allison and that Scott is hanging out with Isaac a _lot_ lately. Short of buddying up with Jackson or Derek (because let’s face it, Peter Hale is not even a consideration), neither he nor Allison have many other options right now. So yeah, he’s a little guilty, but it’s fine. It’s _fine_. 

Except that one day it’s not. 

One morning Stiles wakes up hard, which in itself is not even _slightly_ unusual. However, he also wakes up from a very hot, very graphic dream about Allison and that… well that _is_ unusual. In fact, except for that one time right before Scott and Allison first got together, it’s never happened before. And it throws him, because he’s got used to _not_ thinking about Allison in that way, except now he is and when he sees her in English that day, he can’t help the split-second image of her underneath him, eyelids fluttering closed and mouth open in a moan. 

It travels _straight_ to his dick, and it takes about five minutes before he can concentrate on the lesson, let alone look her way. Scott shoots him some pretty weird looks, which Stiles pointedly ignores on account of the secret worry that Scott will somehow _know_ what’s going on if Stiles acknowledges him. 

It’s a pretty stressful English class, all told. 

Still, there is at least the small mercy that Stiles and Allison do not talk in school except when they have classes together that Scott isn’t in. Stiles is therefore spared the awkwardness of trying desperately not to get a boner or think about sex until sixth period math, and even then things are pretty much okay, because Lydia is being distractingly wonderful. Obviously someone somewhere has decided to cut Stiles some slack for a little while. And best of all, the streak of luck continues for the rest of the week. 

He changes his mind about that when Allison knocks on his window at ten to midnight on Friday evening. He lets her in – because it’s not like he has any other option – but regrets it pretty much as soon as she’s inside. Since the first dream, there have been several more and having Allison in his bedroom for real really isn’t helping matters when it comes to the ‘not thinking sex thoughts’ thing. 

Allison settles into her usual seat on the bed, telling him about something that happened in Economics earlier that afternoon. She stops after a minute or two, frowning. 

‘Are you ok?’ she asks. 

Stiles nods furiously. ‘Yeah, yeah I’m fine’, he says. ‘Just a little spaced – I ate a lot of sugar today.’ 

‘Are you sure? Because you looked like you were _miles_ away a second ago, and you’re kind of tense.’ Allison’s jaw tightens. ‘Is it something to do with Scott? Did he say something about us hanging out?’ 

‘What? No! No, it’s nothing. Seriously, I’m fine’, Stiles assures her, feeling the knot in his stomach growing. He gets out of his chair and wanders over to a stack of books about werewolves, his back turned to Allison. ‘Just a little stressed with exams and the Alpha pack and everything.’ 

‘Stiles…’ There’s a hand on his shoulder and when he turns around, Allison is _right there_. ‘Seriously, what’s going on?’ she asks, her eyes concerned. Stiles looks at her. He looks at her and sees how she’s only a couple of inches shorter than he is; tall enough to comfortably meet his eye. Allison has big brown eyes, softer these days but still so much harder than they used to be. They’re contrasted by the strong line of her jaw, and the long, pale stretch of her neck, but complemented by the fullness of her lips. And yeah, Allison’s mouth isn’t quite on the same level as Lydia’s almost obscene pout, but her lips are still pink and lush and less than a foot away from him. 

In hindsight, he really should have thought before he acted. 

He doesn’t though, just steps forward, closing the space between them to press their mouths together, his hand reaching up to cup the side of her face. It’s a little clumsy and it’s all him and it only lasts for about five seconds before he realises this was a _really bad idea_ and pulls away, dropping his hand. But by then it’s happened and it’s too late to take back what he’s done. 

‘I’m sorry’, is the first thing out of his mouth. ‘I shouldn’t have done that’, is the second. 

‘No, you shouldn’t have’, Allison agrees. He takes a step back and she does the same, her face unreadable. Stiles thinks he sees something like hurt in her eyes. ‘I should go’, she says, and he doesn’t make a move to stop her when she picks up her bag and heads out of the window. 

* * *

There’s no contact between them over the weekend, which actually suits Stiles just fine – he’s relishing his chance to bury his head in the sand while he still can. And to that effect, he’s also not really speaking to anyone else either. Luckily his dad is working double shifts, so Stiles avoids the full weight of Sheriff-y perception. Also luckily, Scott is off doing something with Isaac, so he only texts a couple of times and Stiles knows that he doesn’t really expect a reply anyway. 

The weekend is kind of blissful, all things considered. Then Monday comes, bringing the end of sweet, sweet denial and the horrible return of reality. The build-up to third period chemistry is a truly horrible thing, and by the time they’re all filing into class, Stiles is pretty sure the tension is coming off him in _waves_. He doesn’t look in Allison’s direction the whole time. He also practically _sprints_ out of class when the bell goes. 

Apparently he’s not fast enough though, because he’s only about ten yards down the hall when he’s dragged into an empty classroom by – surprise, surprise – Allison. 

‘We need to talk’, she says, uttering the single most ominous phrase ever. Stiles makes a face. 

‘Do we have to? I mean, really?’ 

Allison gives him a _look_. ‘Yes, we do’, she snaps. ‘Because you _kissed_ me, and I want to know why!’ 

There’s a pause. Then, ‘I kissed you because I wanted to!’ Stiles blurts out. ‘I’m sorry ok, but just lately I can’t get you out of my mind and you were _right there_ and I just… I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have done it, I know, and I’m sorry. But I wanted to.’ 

As soon as the words are out, he regrets them. Now there’s no denying anything; no writing it off as a stupid mistake that had no meaning. His heart sinks somewhere into his stomach and he’s about to say something, _anything_ , to fix what he’s done when Allison asks, 

‘You think about me like that?’ 

Stiles’ shoulders slump. ‘Yeah’, he admits. ‘Yeah I do.’ 

‘But I thought you liked Lydia.’ 

‘So did I!’ Stiles says. ‘I mean, I said I was ok with her and Jackson but I really wasn’t, and I wasn’t over her either. And then, I don’t know, something happened and it’s like I just forgot about feeling bad about Lydia because I was thinking about you instead.’ He shakes his head. ‘This is so fucked up. I mean, Scott _loves_ you and I never even _considered_ you as anything but a friend when you were with him because he’s my best friend and I would never do that to him. Except apparently I would.’ 

‘It is kind of messy’, Allison agrees. She bites her lip. ‘You really shouldn’t have kissed me.’ 

Stiles sighs. ‘Yeah, I know. Believe me, I -’ 

The kiss is gentle – barely a press of lips before Allison’s pulling away again, with this look in her eyes like she’s scared; like she’s waiting for some kind of sign. And even though the whole thing is many shades of stupid and wrong and bad and _totally_ against the bro code, Stiles doesn’t give her the chance to back away, stepping into Allison’s space and hooking an arm around her waist as he moves in to kiss her. 

It’s chaste to start with. Closed mouthed and soft, just slight movement and pressure. It’s not sexy or sensual or anything, but it still gives Stiles shivers because he is _kissing a girl_ , and better yet, he’s kissing _Allison_. Then she wraps an arm around his neck, her hand settling just at the nape, fingers curling into his too-short hair, pulling him in closer even though that’s barely possible. And Stiles is happy to let her take the lead; to slide her tongue along the seam of his lips and into his mouth, because let’s face it, it’s not like he has any idea what he’s doing. So he lets Allison do what she wants, teaching by example and setting his pulse racing at the same time. 

Eventually though, there’s the pressing need to breathe. They pull apart and Stiles now fully understands why people kiss so much – if the act alone wasn’t addictive as fuck, the aftermath (Allison’s puffy lips, huge pupils and generally dishevelled appearance) only adds to the fun. He makes a decision, then and there, that kissing is something that is going to happen a lot more in his future. 

Of course, it’s then that reality decides to kick back in, like a sucker punch in the gut. 

‘Oh shit’, Stiles says. 

Allison nods. ‘Yup.’ She bites her lip. Stiles can’t take his eyes off her mouth and flushes when he realises she’s caught him looking. 

‘Sorry’, he mumbles. ‘Uh…’ She shrugs, smiling a little. 

‘It’s ok’, she says. Then she frowns. ‘Umm, well, I should go. I’ll see you in class.’ And then she’s turning away and walking towards the door, only to pause with her hand on the handle, casting him a glance over her shoulder. 

‘I wanted to as well’, she says. ‘Just in case you were wondering.’ Then she really does leave. After she’s gone, Stiles stares at the door and wonders if making Allison walk out on him is getting to be a thing. 

He purposely ignores the warmth that’s blossoming in his chest. 

* * *

They don’t try to talk about it again for a week or two. First off, it’d not like there’s much to say other than, ‘I want to’, ‘I think I might like you a lot’, and ‘We can’t do this’. Secondly, just as exams are really starting to kick in, everything with the alpha pack goes totally to shit. Peter Hale’s attempts at peace-making fall through pretty epically and now there’s a war on, wolf against wolf with humans stuck in the middle. Scott, for all his talk about not being part of Derek’s pack, is out most nights with Isaac and the Hales. Stiles seriously wonders if Scott’s going to be making it to Junior year at all, between his abysmal grades and his high likelihood of death. He doesn’t dwell on the tiny thought in the darkest recesses of his mind that says things with Allison would be a lot easier if Scott was out of the picture. It doesn’t go away though. 

Still, between the alpha pack and school, he barely has time to think about anything at all. Bodies are starting to drop, either caught in the crossfire or sent as a message. Boyd turns up on the Hale’s front porch, bloodied, beaten beyond recognition and barely breathing. Stiles winds up in Dr Deaton’s treatment room that night. He’s helping to burn herbs and – literally – think positive thoughts with Lydia (apparently her immunity makes her a perfect magical conduit – who knew?) while the veterinarian does his best to patch Boyd up. By the time Stiles and Lydia are headed off to school, practically high on some medicinal thing meant to wake you up, Boyd is in one piece again, and beginning to heal on his own. 

It’s a small victory when they find out that the alphas burned down a house the previous night. With a family inside. 

By the end of exams – which Stiles feels he’s scraped through thanks only to his formidable memory and intellect – people in town are really scared. There are whispers (quietly, in the darkness) that the town is cursed; that there’s something in the water that is making people go mad. Why else would there have been so _many_ animal attacks, and so _much_ violence? More than a couple of households decide to take extended holidays with family in other counties or states over the summer. Town starts to feel smaller and colder, but bigger and bleaker at the same time. 

By the end of exams, Allison has started coming through Stiles’ window again. 

They don’t talk much these days – what’s there to talk about, really? – but they don’t do much else either. Most of time they wind up sprawled on Stiles’ bed, watching films without guns or violence or any kind of supernatural creature at all in them. Their bodies press together side by side, and sometimes Allison will curl up, feet tucked under her as she leans into Stiles’ chest, her head resting on his shoulder. Sometimes, Stiles’ arm with find its way around her shoulders, or her waist, holding her close; simultaneously trying to keep her safe and reassure himself that she’s still here. 

Neither of them talk about it, or about how they’re feeling. Neither of them mention anything about enlightening Scott. 

It’s not fine. It’s not going to be fine. They still pretend that it might be. 

The pretense is dropped the night Stiles gets a text from Allison at ten pm one evening, which simply says, ‘They’ve found me.’ 

He’s barely thinking as he grabs his hoodie, his car keys and a couple of other things that might be useful, flying down the stairs and out of the door without a word of explanation to his father. He drives like a maniac over to Allison’s house, heart battering against his ribs as he stumbles out of the jeep, feet pounding against stone as he heads up to the front door, finds the spare key and fumbles his way inside. 

There’s blood on the walls. 

There’s blood in the kitchen too, and Chris Argent on the floor, so pale and cold to the touch. His chest is rising and falling (barely) and his eyelids flicker when Stiles kneels beside him, heedless of the blood. 

‘I’m calling an ambulance, ok?’ he says, hand slipping as he wraps it around Chris’ own, which is wet and crimson. ‘And the police’, he adds, looking around at the way things have been smashed; at the few spaces where objects are missing; at the knife wounds in Chris’ chest. 

And then he does what he says, and stays there, in the blood and wet and the horror of it all, holding hands with Chris Argent and pressing dishcloths against the holes in his chest. 

‘Robbery?’ his father says when he arrives (like the cavalry, and oh god, Stiles has never been so glad to see him) looking around at the damage. 

‘They’ve taken Allison too’, Stiles says. The bottom of his stomach seems to have dropped out, because all he feels right now is empty, empty, empty. 

He lets them take him in an ambulance, lets them wrap a blanket round his shaking shoulders. He gratefully accepts the change of clothes that someone has brought from his house – one of his dad’s deputies maybe? – and the cup of coffee (with whiskey) that comes after. He gives his statement, fabricates a half lie about Allison calling him when the break-in started, doesn’t show them the text he got from her. And he texts first Derek, then Scott, and finally Lydia. 

And when he’s finally allowed out of the police station, he gets right back in his jeep (which someone has kindly driven here for him) and heads out to the abandoned subway station. He doesn’t look back once. 

* * *

‘But why did Allison text you?’ Jackson asks. Stiles shrugs, unsure what to say. 

‘They’ve been hanging out since… y’know’, Scott says. He looks at Stiles. ‘I can smell it on the pair of you’, he says. He gives a small smile. ‘It’s ok – I’m glad that Allison has someone she can talk to. And I’ve been kind of a shitty friend to you lately, I know. I don’t mind.’ 

‘Thanks man’, Stiles says, his throat tight. Scott, as ever, is far kinder than most – but Stiles is also pretty sure that Scott wouldn’t be so kind if he knew that Stiles and Allison are not _just_ friends these days. He pushes the guilt in his gut to the side and looks around at the assembled werewolves – and Lydia. 

‘So what are we going to do?’ he asks. 

* * *

Outside, there’s a battle raging. Stiles can hear the sound of ripping flesh and snapping bone, even from underneath the house. It makes his stomach turn. 

He ignores the sounds in favour of working his way through the basements, gun in his hands and heart in his mouth. His pulse is probably fast enough to dance the flamenco to, his veins are live-wired by adrenaline, and he is _so_ afraid. He doesn’t stop though; doesn’t let it overwhelm him as he checks each room. 

He finds her in the last one – the only one with anything in it – and of _course_ Allison’s here. The irony of it all would be too much to waste; Stiles has learned that werewolves seem to have quite a twisted sense of humour, and there’s no doubt that they’d take pleasure from this. The famous Gerard Argent’s granddaughter, Kate Argent’s niece, strung up in their very own weapons of torture, handcuffed to the very same metal grille that Derek was, once upon a time. Her head is hanging down between her shoulders and there’s sickness welling up in Stiles’ throat as he scans the room before heading over to her. 

‘Allison? _Allison_?’ 

No response. 

‘Hang on, I’m going to get you out of here’, Stiles says, more for his own sake than for hers. He sets to work with his lock picks – the perfect rebellion for a Sheriff’s son – forcing himself to work slowly and methodically; not to rush and have to start over again. It feels like forever before he’s even got one cuff open, but then he has to hold Allison’s weight up while he works on the other one, not wanting to strain her wrists or shoulders more. 

Eventually she’s free, and Stiles gets her down, pulling off the electric wires taped to her stomach. He cradles her in his arms, stroking her hair off her face and whispering to her about how it’s all going to be ok if she just wakes up. He doesn’t know how long it takes before her eyelids start to flutter, or her lips start to shape his name, but she _does_ wake up and his heart thuds in his chest, relief beating hard inside his ribs. He shrugs off his hoodie and helps her into it, posting her shaky arms down the sleeves, zipping up the front so she’s not just in her bra. 

‘I knew you’d come’, she manages to say, and that’s the moment where Stiles knows they’re both totally screwed, because there’s no way to come back from this now. So he nods, holding on to her like she might disappear if he doesn’t. Tears start trickling down his cheeks, but he’ll be damned if he’s ashamed – he’s not even seventeen yet and he is _too young_ for all of this; too young to be so scared all the time. 

Allison has just got herself into a better sitting position when a noise in the corridor gets Stiles’ attention. Acting on instinct, he pushes himself away from Allison, grabs the gun and takes a shot as the door bursts open. 

The bullet doesn’t find its target, and then beast is on Stiles before he can shoot again. The gun is knocked out of his hand, while his head is knocked into the concrete. His ears ring. There’s a sharp pain slicing across his chest. Everything feels kind of distant, and somewhere far away, he hears gunshots ringing out. The last thing he feels is the press of lips against his, again and again and again, and Allison’s voice (tearful and afraid) begging him not to leave her. 

He wakes up in a white hospital room, stiff and sore and aching all over. His head hurts like a bitch and his chest feels like someone’s had a crack at him with Wolverine’s claws. Scott is sitting at his bedside. 

‘I love her’, he says simply. ‘I love her, Stiles.’ 

‘I know’, Stiles tells him, pressing his eyes shut. ‘I’m… I’m sorry.’ 

‘I know’, Scott replies. ‘I know you’d never do this to me on purpose.’ He gets up, squeezes Stiles’ hand gently. ‘I’m really glad you’re ok dude. And thank you – for saving her.’ Then he’s gone, and there’s nobody to see the tears that slip down Stiles’ face, or to hear his heart stutter and ache because Scott McCall is the nicest person in the world and Stiles... Stiles has pretty much just stabbed him in the back and then kicked him while he’s on the ground. 

* * *

‘I don’t think I can do this anymore’, Allison tells him a few days later. ‘Hunting, I mean.’ She tilts her head up to meet his eye and gives a wry little smile. ‘I just… it’s taken so much from me. I don’t think I’m strong enough to let it take anything else.’ 

Stiles nods, feeling her hair under his chin, and the warmth of her body pressed close to his. She’s curled up beside him in the hospital bed, which isn’t allowed really, but nobody’s said anything – and nor are they likely to. Even Mrs McCall looks at the two of them with kind eyes. After all, they did save each other’s lives, which is the talk of the town these days. Apparently some crazy burglar gang on PCP have been behind all the crimes that have been going on lately; Allison Argent was kidnapped by them when they attacked her father. Then she was rescued by the Sheriff’s son and in turn, she saved Stiles by shooting the burglar who tried to kill him. Some people are even going so far as to say that it’s ‘romantic’. 

‘I know what you mean’, he tells her, lifting a hand to brush her fringe out of her eyes. ‘And I’m sure your dad will understand. Jesus, we’re too young to have to deal with all of this. And we’re only human.’ 

‘Only human’, she echoes, reaching for his hand and lacing their fingers together. 

‘Only human’, he assures her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. ‘That’s all we should have to be.’ 

Beside him, the monitor beeps rhythmically in time with the steady beat of his heart. The rise and fall of his chest doesn’t hurt as much now; he’s healing, but slowly. Outside, the nurses chatter and exchange notes with the doctors. Visitors come and go. 

Life carries on.

**Author's Note:**

> Possibly contemplating a companion piece?


End file.
